Inquisitio veritatis- to seek the truth
by MLaw
Summary: Illya has a mystery on his hands and only his partner can help solve it. Trouble was, Napoleon was unconscious. This began as a one shot for a writing challenge, but morphed into a WIP. And now the end has arrived. Comments on this story are very much appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

The drive along the Belt Parkway heading away from the Verrazano–Narrows Bridge was a surprisingly pleasant one.

It was a beautiful day, the view of the river called the Narrows, was spectacular as the sunlight danced upon the water. Napoleon wished he had time to head out to the Hamptons where his boat, the Pursang, was berthed at his parent's house.*

It would have been a perfect time to make a getaway on his tihirty-foot yacht; no one was home. No father with whom to argue yet again, no mother and sisters to fawn over him, not that he didn't mind it, but sometimes it could be too much.

They'd want to have tea and brunch on the veranda, which of course would take up his beautiful sailing time.

This time they were off to Italy with mother and his sisters visiting his brother Hannibal in Rome. Dad as usual, still being a high ranking officer in the Army, was attending meetings in Washington D.C. to discuss the situation in southeast Asia. President Johnson was seeking congressional approval for direct U.S. involvement in Vietnam. That was a bit worrysome to Napoleon as he believed the U.S. had no place invovling itself over there.

He and his father had quite a few arguments on the subject, ones which Napoleon never succeeded in changing his father's mind... Darius Solo was a military man, through and through. He was furious when Napoleon left the army after Korea and went to work for UNCLE; it was an organization that the senior Solo referred to as a bunch of Commies. Of course that was ridiculous...well except for Illya. Darius despised Kuryakin.

After Napoleon had invited his partner to his parent's house for dinner, it became more than apparent that Illya wasn't welcome, at least to dad. His mother and sisters took a back seat to the almighty Darius Solo's opinions, and had to remain silent. Only Aunt Amy went against her brother, which is why she rarely made an appearance at the Solo family compound. Perhaps it was her independent thinking and self sufficiency that drew Napoleon to her, she was a free spirit, not unlike the character Auntie Mame.

Even she wasn't around as she was on one of her world-wide jaunts...was she in Tahiti? He couldn't remember.

She'd sent him a postcard with a tropical scene on it, but he'd only glanced at it quickly as he was late to get where he had to be and that was Xaverian High School in Brooklyn.

One of his former classmates at Xaverian was a teacher there, as well as a Xaverian brother. He had some suspicions about students being recruited by a nefarious type, possibly THRUSH.

Brother Kelly was aware of what Solo did for a living, and contacted him for help, keeping it rather hush hush and not involving the principal of the school, or the diocese.

Napoleon wondered if Father Burke was still the principal at the school? The man was a disciplinarian and could scare the socks off anyone, not to mention he was a ball of fire, with boundless energy to boot.

Every year he led the school marching band in the St. Patrick's Day parade, right up Fifth Avenue in New York city. He'd strut along with the band, and that man could move!

Luckily his meeting with Brother Kelly was kept clandestine, so there would be no run in with Father Burke.

After catching up a bit, and talking about their school days, Napoleon listened carefully to what Brother Kelly told him. He was right, things sounded suspicious; He promised he'd look into the matter and as he was leaving the building his memory echoed with the voice of Father Burke calling after him. "Late again Solo, that's detention for you. Now get to class!"

Napoleon remembered being handed quite a few of those pink slips. Unfortunately he never learned as he was still tardy most of the time, even to meetings with Mister Waverly.

However, now he was ahead of schedule and on his way to meet Illya in Brighton Beach, as his partner had invited him to join him at one of the bath houses there for a Russian style steam, and massage. After which was required a plunge into a chilled pool...something on which Napoleon generally passed. Once the bathhouse was done with, they were to eat at Olga's, Illya's favorite Russian restaurant.

He'd become friends with the owners and they treated him like family. It was something Napoleon suspected his partner needed from time to time, and that was visiting people who spoke his own language, of course eating Russian food was involved as well, and plenty of it.

Olga was always trying to marry Illya off to her daughter...or was it a niece?

As he sped along the parkway, Napoleon had the top down on the silver convertible, though it was a bit chilly the sun was strong; it was good to get some fresh air, since he couldn't do it on the boat. The radio blasting Tom Jones' hit, 'It's not unusual.'

Solo was humming along with the song when he realized there was a white car that had pulled up alongside him and was matching the speed of his Chrysler.

Looking across, he knew he was being eyed by a gorgeous blonde, who smiled and gave him a little wave.

He waved back at her, and then she gestured for him to pull over to one of the many parking areas along the river.

There people could get out of their cars and do a little sightseeing and strolling along the waterway that separated New York and New Jersey as well as get a bird's eye view of the fairly new Verrazano bridge.

Giving into temptation, he followed her into the parking lot, and exited his car with a smile.

"Why hello there, gorgeous day isn't it?" He flashed a charismatic smile to her. She returned it with an alluring one of her own.

"My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo at your service."

"I know."

It happened too fast for him to react as she raised a pistol at him and fired.

Napoleon was sent backwards by the impact, slamming against another parked car. He fell to the ground in shock, bleeding from a close range belly wound.

The mysterious blonde returned to her car, not looking back at what she'd done. She started the engine and took off, tires screeching as she disappeared into traffic on the parkway.

Seconds later a couple who owned the car beside which Solo was laying returned; the woman screamed when she saw the body of a man laying there, his white shirt blossoming with a red stain.

Her husband bounded round the car to her, and seeing the wounded man on the ground, he went into action. From the trunk of his car he retrieved a black medical bag and immediately went to work.

He barked at his wife to go to the nearest payphone and call for an ambulance. She hesitated for a moment, still in shock, but then turned and ran as best she could in her high heels.

Illya waited impatiently at the bathhouse, checking his watch several times before deciding to call Napoleon before his ire grew at his partner being late...again.

His annoyance changed to one of concern when Napoleon did not answer his communicator.

He switched channels."Open Channel D. Security."

"Security here Mr. Kuryakin. How can we be of assistance?"

"Can you do a trace on Mr. Solo. I am concerned as he missed a meeting with me and is not answering his communicator."

"Oh, sorry sir. We were just about to...hold please for Mr. Waverly."

"Mr. Kuryakin, where are you at present?"

"Brighton Beach sir. Mr. Solo was supposed to meet..."

Waverly cut him off." Your partner has been injured. He is at present in surgery at Coney Island Hospital."

"Injured, how? A car accident?"

"No young man. He was shot at a rest area along the Belt Parkway. Now would you would be so good as to go there to monitor his condition and keep me informed. Waverly out."

"Shot?" Illya blurted out. Waverly was always a man who cut to the chase, but a few more details would have been nice.

Kuryakin hurried out of the waiting area of the bathhouse and climbed into the UNCLE sedan he'd borrowed from the motorpool and headed straight over to the hospital.

By the time he managed to get there, it was not quickly enough to suit him as he gotten caught in rush hour traffic.

He enquired at the desk and was sent to the surgical unit. Napoleon had just gotten out of surgery and was in recovery.

There Illya presented his identification and was permitted inside.

Napoleon was pale as he lay on the gurney; he was connected to a heart monitor, wearing an oxygen mask and several IV lines inserted into his arms. One was attached to a bag of blood.

The sound of the monitor beeping away was one with which Illya was quite familiar. As he listened, the beep-beep-beep was steady; that was a good sign.

A blond haired doctor looking to be in his early forties entered the recovery room, his white coat fluttering about him as it was unbuttoned.

"I'm Doctor Ivanovich, the attending physician." He had been made aware of who, or rather what Napoleon was and had been advised another agent had arrived.

"How is he?"Illya asked.

"Your friend was very lucky Mr…?"

"Kuryakin."

The doctor presumed, hearing Illya's slight accent and immediately switched from English to Russian.

"_He was found by doctor where he had been shot at rest stop not far from here by the river, and was given emergency first aid; it most likely saved his life. Mr. Solo was hit in the abdomen at close range with a .38 caliber bullet."_

The doctor held up a glass petri dish containing the slug. "I imagine you'll be wanting this instead of the police."

"_Yes, I will be taking over from here. No need to involve the police department as we take care of our own."_

"_I didn't think an organization like the U.N.C.L.E. had a Russian working for them."_

"_We are international in scope and have very many foreign nationals as agents, representing our member nations."_

"_Sort of like United Nations?"_

"_I suppose. I am representative from Soviet Union. Your Russian is very good by the way, but you were born here, were you not Doctor?"_

"You have good ear Mr. Kuryakin,"the doctor switched back to English. "My parents, may they rest in peace, came from the old country to escape the Stalinist purges, but I was born here in Brooklyn. Now if you'll excuse me a second, I need to check on your friend."

Doctor Ivanovich listened to Napoleon's breathing with his stethoscope, nodding his approval. He examined the wound to make sure the bandages were clean, though he found some minor seepage, it was nothing to cause concern.

The patient would be monitored, and the amount of blood given would be carefully watched.

Napoleon was deemed ready to move to the ICU, and Illya accompanied his partner as an orderly rolled him out.

Once Napoleon was settled Kuryakin sat in a surprisingly comfortable chair beside his partner's bed, and pulled his communicator.

"Channel D- Waverly."

"What have you to report?"

"Mister Solo was shot by a .38 caliber bullet at close range. He was aided by a doctor and his wife who found him and administered first aid on the spot and called for an ambulance. The surgeon here said that most likely saved his life."

"Is he out of surgery?"

"Yes sir, he was just moved to ICU, though at present, he is not conscious. He did lose a lot of blood, but the surgeon has assured me Mister Solo should recover."

"Any witnesses?"

"Not that I am aware of sir. I have yet to speak to the doctor and his wife who found Mister Solo. They may or may not have seen anything."

"Very well Mister Kuryakin, keep me up to date."

"Yes sir. Kuryakin out."

Illya left his partner in the care of Doctor Ivanovich and sought out the doctor and his wife who helped Napoleon.

He was given a copy of the police report and from that he got the address and phone number. The report, he reminded himself, had to be squelched. Waverly would see to that.

At first he thought just to call the doctor and his wife, but perhaps a visit in person might help jog their memories as to if they saw anything. Sometimes people notice things that are so slight that they forget them.

Kuryakin was very good at jogging people's memories…

Doctor and Mrs. Bianchi lived in Dyker Heights in Brooklyn so it wasn't a long ride.

Illya called ahead and made arrangements for his visit, and once there all they did recall they saw a white car leave the area in a real hurry but theyn didn't get a look at the driver's face, though they were sure it was a woman with blonde hair.

He thanked them for their assistance, and handing them his card he asked them to call if they thought of anything else.

Ilya returned to the hospital, having informed Mister Waverly of his findings which were basically useless. Though for a split second he wondered if it were Angelique who had finally gotten an order to kill her UNCLE lover.

Upon his return to Solo's room, he found a blonde woman there, leaning over Napoleon.

He immediately pulled his gun and ordered her to step back. To his surprise it was none other than Angelique La Chien,

"Here to finish the job you bitch?" He growled.

"Finish darling...whatever do you mean? Any why must you speak to me that way?" Still she purred." I heard it on the grapevine that my Napoleon had been shot. I'm merely here to visit him. See I brought flowers and a small bottle of Korbel to be opened when he wakes,:"she pointed to them on the night stand."And I can assure you there's no spiders in the flowers nor is the Korbel poisoned...you can have it tested if you like."

"So if you didn't try to kill him Angelique, who did?"

"I have asked the same question myself, darling. No one in THRUSH is taking credit for it, and no orders came from the Council for a hit. So it wasn't one of us. Just word on the grapevine that some mysterious blonde tried to kill the one and only Napoleon Solo. Perhaps she was a jilted lover?

Illya huffed; for some reason he believed her. "That was something that did not occur to me. Now if you do not mind, you are past your allotted visiting time."

"Fine, I was just leaving anyway. _à bientôt." _ She leaned forward, giving Napoleon a rather chaste kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you when you are well, and please recover, Napoleon darling."

She left without another word, and Illya decided it was better that he stand guard outside the room. He took his position beside an observation window, allowing him to look in on his partner while standing in a darkened part of the corridor. The agent had requested the lights be dimmed...for security purposes.

No one would see him if they approached Napoleon's room, so it added an element of surprise.

(the prompt)

He could still hear the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor from where he stood in the shadows.

Only time would tell once Solo regained consciousness and recounted what had happened to himself...if he could remember.

For now it was a part of mystery that would have to wait to be solved.


	2. Chapter 2

Kuryakin remained at Coney Island Hospital for another day and would have stayed longer had Mister Waverly not called him back to headquarters for an assignment.

Illya showered and changed before meeting with the Old Man, but still he looked haggard and worn out. He hadn't slept at all since Angelique's unexpected visit to Napoleon.

His mind was continually racing, trying to come up with a connection to this mysterious blonde. Napoleon had a habit of talking about his innumerable trysts but Illya for the life of him could not recall his partner mentioning a blonde for a very long time. He liked every kind of woman but lately his penchant had been for brunettes.

Illya was obviously distracted until Waverly spoke to him, in essence, calling him out.

"Young man, I know you are concerned for you partner, but you must not forget you have a job to do here. This sort of complication was one of the main reasons why I was hesitant about my agents being assigned permanent partners; attachments can be...problematic."

"But Mister Waverly sir…"

"No buts; I understand the situation, perhaps more than you imagine. I've been told by the surgeon that Mister Solo will recover. Yes, his not regaining consciousness is a concern, but he's still alive and from what I understand improving little by little. You and he are my two best agents and I can not, no...I _will not _have you both out of the field at the same time for no good reason."

Waverly watched as his Russian's nostrils flared, and that lower lip of his began to protrude. He knew Kuryakin well enough to feel comfortable the man wouldn't let his temper loose. He was respectful to his elders, and more so to his boss.

He was well aware of Illya's brutal Soviet training, and because of it the man had the potential to be a killing machine, but still he managed to keep that dangerous side of himself reeled in and controlled. God help the man or woman who'd be on the receiving end of that inner rage if it became unbridled.

Illya Kuryakin had a cold bloodedness to him; Waverly had read enough of Solo's mission reports to put two and two together, reading between the lines as it were. Comments made by the Russian, or how he dealt with an enemy agent were detailed along with Solo's actions. Between those small glimpses and Kuryakin's private file there was more than enough information to reach a reasonably informed conclusion about the man. He was dangerous and could be deadly.

Waverly was no fool, and knew all too well that Solo left much unsaid in his reports, Kuryakin as well. The Old Man let it slide, and for good reason.

He trusted both men despite their proclivities for bending the rules. Their methods were sometimes unorthodox but they got the job done and had a higher success rate than any other partnered agents. Still this attachment that had developed between partners had its drawbacks.

Waverly sent a file round on the conference table, stopping its rotation when it reached where Kuryakin was sitting.

Illya drew his reading glasses from his breast pocket and immediately opened the file marked 'eyes only;' he quickly scanned it.

"Baltimore sir?"

"Yes Mister Kuryakin. You may not be aware of something Mister Solo was looking into the day he was attacked."

"Sir?"

"He recently visited his alma mater, Xavarian high school located in Brooklyn."

"Mister Solo mentioned about stopping there before he was to meet me, but did not say why he was doing so."

For a moment Waverly was surprised upon hearing that as he generally assumed Solo and Kuryakin to be more communicative, especially when there was something curious happening. Napoleon however, had informed the Old Man of what he was looking into, and rightly so.

"He was there to speak to a former classmate, a Brother Sean Kelly. I've been in touch with the man after the fact and apparently he's been suspicious of an individual, or individuals who are attempting to recruit some of the students to THRUSH."

"Really?" Illya's eyebrows raised in surprise. "And how is this related to Baltimore?"

Waverly smiled, finally knowing something his brilliant Russian did not. Tapping his briar pipe in the crystal

ash tray in front of himself, he reached for his humidor but paused, changing his mind about filling the bowl with fresh tobacco. Instead he just a bit down on the mouth piece before speaking again.

"Baltimore is where the Xavarian brothers have their American generalate. Also known as the Congregation of St. Francis Xavier, they were founded by one Theodore James Ryken in Bruges, Belgium, in 1839 and named after Saint Francis Xavier. The institute is dedicated to Roman Catholic education, but perhaps more than that if THRUSH has become involved."

Kuryakin nodded his head but remained silent.

"We've noted a bit of chatter on THRUSH channels regarding travel between Baltimore and New York City, though nothing specific to the high school has been mentioned to tie it to these trips. It may be just a coincidence, but one that needs to be investigated. While your partner is recovering, you'll be continuing with what would have been his assignment."

"There is no such thing as coincidence," Illya said.

"Hmmm, indeed Mister Kuryakin. You will be flying to Baltimore along with a visiting Section III agent, D.E. Le Claire who is out of our Paris office. Just passing through and not part of your assignment though. Agent Le Claire is doing a courier drop for us before returning to Paris as it were."

Kuryakin gave no reaction as his airline ticket was passed to him. Apparently Waverly wanted him to move fast on this situation by flying instead of driving to Baltimore. Flying time would be slightly over an hour whereas driving would be triple the travelling time.

"No need to meet Le Claire ahead of time Mister Kuryakin as the agent has merely been assigned the seat next to yours. I thought it best you knew you had one of our operatives seated beside you."

"Yes sir. If you do not mind I will do a little more research on these Xavarain Brothers before I depart. Hopefully it will not be a situation like the one we encountered with THRUSH infiltrating the monastery of Saint Thomas and holding your friend Abbot John and the other monks hostage." *

The Old Man shook his head, thinking of that averted disaster. THRUSH lost the laser technology from that affair thanks to the efforts of Solo and Kuryakin; it suddenly dawned on Waverly they could be trying the same tactic, though perhaps on American soil instead of Europe. Or could it be a repeat of that dreadful Mother Fear and the Figliano School.**

He didn't bother bringing up that possibility but instead, he sighed,"One can only hope Mister Kuryakin."

Waverly picked up another file from the pile in front of himself and began to read it. That was a non-verbal signal that Illya was dismissed.

.

.

*ref to "The Monks of St. Thomas Affair" Season 3 Episode 5

**ref to "The Children's Day Affair" Season 2 Episode 12


	3. Chapter 3

Kuryakin, as was his habit, made a bee-line to the UNCLE archives for any information that he could find on the Xaverian Brothers, but unfortunately there was little to be had. The only reference he located was related to Napoleon Solo having been taught by them at the school in Brooklyn, and that it was an all-boys school.

He found that interesting on a personal level; perhaps having Napoleon attend there was his father and mother's efforts to curb their son's very active libido.

His partner had once told him that he lost his virginity with the family nanny. That in an of itself would have had Napoleon shipped off to a boy's school, that is if his parents found out.

Illya wondered if the nanny's indescretion having been discovered was merely dismissed and not thrown in jail for having sex with a minor. He snickered, knowing Napoleon would have probably pleaded her case and got her off without any punishment other than losing her job.

Illya lost his virginity at the same age as his partner, but it wasn't due to an over active sex drive. He was shy and knew little but found out about it with a girl named Natasha who was a good friend. She also lived at the Moskva orphanage.*

She was shipped off to be a servant to someone in high standing with the Kremlin. Illya himself was nearly sent to a farming cooperative, but once they discovered how intelligent he was, he was sent to a school to develop his talents. It was from there he was chosen by Viktor Karkoff to be trained for Soviet intelligence work…*

It was he who had Kuryakin sent to the west to complete his education at the Sorbonne and then at Cambridge. At the same time Illya was spying on his fellow Soviets attending school outside the USSR. *

He was set up by his handler, causing an incident with the West German Embassy in Paris. That led to his transfer to Cambridge in England, but it also let to Karkoff losing face. He somehow managed to leave the GRU and transfer to KGB. **

Deep down, someday Illya knew Viktor would have his revenge, but so far that had not happened. Illya knew that it would though, and he therefore had to remain ready at all times.

He'd suffer the consequences by attending a school with no girls, though the young Solo probably did figure a way around that. Brooklyn wasn't an island.

Bay Ridge, where the high school was located consisted of a mix of ethnic groups... Italian, Irish, Hispanic, a a fair few other nationalities. The area had a number of historic sites, though they were rather young by comparison when Illya made a mental note as to the historical sites in Moskva alone.

Still, he was sure Napoleon had more than ample opportunities to meet those of the fairer sex to satisfy his young cravings.

Illya shook himself free of those thoughts as he headed back up to the Infirmary to check on his partner's condition.

He'd often complained about Napoleon being like a mother hen to him at times and here he was now being guilty of the same thing.

The heart monitor was beeping steadily as Illya took his seat beside his partner's bed.

Though half of Napoleon's face was covered with an oxygen mask, it was evident his color had improved.

"Ah, Mister Kuryakin, Nurse Caldwell in her crisp **white **uniform said as she walked into the room. The woman was built on the husky side, with her biceps stretching the material of her sleeves. She was a veritable walking **muscle**.

"We couldn't wait to return, could we? Hmm? At least we had the decency to finally change our clothes and we hope shower?"

He raised a single eyebrow in response, not answering her. He felt as though she were addressing him like he was a six year old child. There was something about this woman that rubbed him the wrong way. Most likely it was her constant usage of nosism.

It was particularly annoying to him, and he wondered if she did it in an attempt to unnerve him. It was in essence a constant reminder of the overthrow of the Tsar and his family, Illya's distant relations, though no one knew that. It was a secret he'd kept all his life, having been warned by his father to keep it well hidden.

No one back in the Soviet Union knew that his mother was a relation to the Romanovs, a far removed cousin and of no consequence, which was what most likely saved her family's life during the Revolution and the subsequent murder of the Tsar and his family.

"_Must_ you constantly use the royal 'we'," Illya finally jabbed. "It's most unbecoming, especially to one who is not of a royal bloodline. You were born in Hoboken, New Jersey were you not? Your grandparents who were farmers, emigrated from North Yorkshire in England, did they not?"

He watched as her face turned red with embarrassment. She'd been outed and she knew it. She let it slip once in a while that she was somehow related to the British royalty. It made her feel special, and it was only a harmless white lie.

"Do not worry Nurse Caldwell your secret is safe with me, but please in the future, refrain from using the royal we, and so forth in my presence?"

"Um, yes sir Mister Kuryakin. I apologize if it bothered you. I'll leave you alone with Mister Solo for a few minutes."

He waved her off with that disarmingly crooked smile of his. "Not really, I suppose it is fine as it makes you happy. Nothing wrong with that? Forget what I said, and if I upset you, I apologize."

"Thank you Mister Kuryakin," she actually smiled before she disappeared out the door.

Illya remembered a line jotted down by a science fiction writer he'd met once who was working on a new book. Having an eidetic memory, he remembered everything he'd read and thinking perhaps those words applied to Nurse Caldwell…

"_This sad little lizard told me that he was a brontosaurus on his mother's side. I did not laugh; people who boast of ancestry often have little else to sustain them. Humoring them costs nothing and adds happiness in a world in which happiness is always in short supply." *_

Napoleon remained unconscious and that was his condition when Illya was forced to leave him. He needed to do more research on these Xaverian Brothers. Perhaps a trip to the city library or better still a visit to Cardinal Spellerman.

He and Napoleon had become acquainted with his Eminence during 'The Vatican Affair,' and with the cardinal's help there were able to prevent a member of THRUSH being elected pope. It also helped that he was a friend of Alexander Waverly's.

First the library, as he would have to make an appointment to see Cardinal Spellerman as one could not just drop in without proper notice. Illya, after experiencing the rituals of the Catholic church while posing as a conclavist for the Cardinal from Poland, knew there was no getting around rules.

Illya opened his communicator as he left Solo's room.

"Channel F- Lisa Rogers."

"Why hello Illya, I don't get many direct communications for me, from you. How is Napoleon?"

"Improving. Lisa I need an appointment early this afternoon to meet with Cardinal Spellerman. I am a bit under the gun as I have a flight to catch later in the day."

"I will do my best."

"You always do. Kuryakin out."

.

.

* ref to "The Orphanage"

** ref to "First Kill" and "Beginnings"

Quote: is from Robert A. Heinlein's "Time Enough For Love" which was actually published in 1973, so having Illya remember it and having met the author and seen the quote was the only way around the time shift. It's one of my favorite quotes.


	4. Chapter 4

It was considered bad luck for a building to have a thirteenth floor, at least here in the United States, other places, maybe not as much so.

Omitting it could take several forms; the most common of which could include denoting what would be the thirteenth floor by simply calling it the fourteenth, or giving the thirteenth floor an alternate designation such as 12A or M which was the thirteenth letter of the Latin alphabet, or merely closing the 13th floor to public occupancy or access as if it didn't exist.

Triskaidekaphobia or the fear of the number 13 on the part of the building's owner or builder might influence them in order to prevent problems that might arise with superstitious occupants.

In this case there was no fear of the number thirteen, not to the occupants on this floor who wanted not to be seen or heard.

The elevator doors silently opened and a petite woman stepped through to this particular thirteenth floor. It was a place that no one knew existed except for a select few.

She was pretty, dressed in a neutral mid-calf beige skirt and a matching bolero jacket. Even her boots matched. The only hint of color was a green, black and gold paisley scarf tied round her neck.

A blonde secretary greeted her with a smile, holding out a black lacquer tray.

"You can leave your weapon here sweetie."

The woman leaned forward, snatching the secretary by her cardigan sweater and pulled her forward until they were practically nose to nose.

"Call me that again and you'll have a face that no man will ever want to look at, understand? I didn't get where I am today by letting people call me sweetie."

"Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am. He's waiting for you in his office." The girl's face nearly turned as red as her sweater.

"Good, that's more like it. Get your act together and maybe you can move up too...oh, and I'm not leaving my gun." She held open her jacket, showing a Beretta tucked into the waistband of her skirt. She liked the feel of the Italian made weapon that was sometimes called the 'Puma.'

"Yes ma'am."

"Now buzz me in."

The girl flicked a toggle switch and spoke into the intercom. "She's here sir."

"Send her in." The voice was low and gravelly, like it had smoked too many cigarettes.

The secretary hit another switch and there was a loud buzz as a pneumatic door opened.

"Welcome my dear, please be seated." A man spoke from the shadows. His face was hidden as he was seated behind his desk with the lights kept low.

She preferred to stand. "I don't have much time."

"Things are going as planned then?"

"Yes, Solo was shot. He stopped along the Belt Parkway to chat me up, just as we anticipated he would."

"I haven't heard any chatter as to whether he is dead or alive, or even wounded for that matter," his baritone voice was tinged with a slight hint of annoyance.

"I definitely shot him, and I saw him go down. If he didn't die on the spot, he'll eventually be dead. The round was laced with a slow acting poison. If he survived, the poison will keep him unconscious and will finally kill him."

"A good backup plan, and now onto phase two."

"Yes sir. I won't let you down, that I promise you." She looked at her wristwatch. "I must go...can't be late."

"Good luck. You better not let me down."

She ignored the implied threat. "Thank you sir, but I don't think I'll need it."

"This operation is off the radar, remember that. If you're caught, no one will come to your assistance or acknowledge your actions. You will be considered rogue and nothing more. You know what you have to do if that happens."

She nodded and exited the way she came in, not giving the secretary a second look.

When the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor, she exited amidst the busy lobby of the Chrysler building and immediately exited to Lexington Avenue.

There the doorman hailed a taxi for her and immediately one pulled up curbside.

As he opened the taxi door for her, the driver spoke.

"Where to ma'am." He couldn't help but notice the looks of this woman and her luscious red lips.

"Kennedy Airport, get me there fast and there'll be a good tip in it for you."

"Yes ma'am!" The driver looked out into traffic and hit the gas, burning a bit of rubber.

.

Illya bypassed going to the library and went straight to see the Cardinal, having gotten an early appointment to visit his Eminence.

An older woman, most likely a secretary, greeted him in the outer office before knocking on the dark wooden door to announce his arrival.

"Hello Mister Kuryakin, Cardinal Spellerman is waiting for you." She opened the door, gesturing for him to enter.

Illya stepped into the office, taking a quick glance at his surroundings. The walls were lined with books, and there were a number of religious statues on pedestals and a nearly life-sized crucifix dominated the wall behind the Cardinal's desk. A few potted palm trees filled in the empty spaces between the dark furnishings.

For some reason it reminded him of Harry Beldon's office, though the statuary filling that office were Greco-Roman...various nudes of course, as that was Beldon's taste. There were no hints of religion, to say the least, as Harry was an atheist with hedonistic tendencies.

"Illya," Spellerman rose from his desk and walked around to greet the Russian. He shook his hand but didn't offer his ring to be kissed, as was the protocol for Catholics.

Illya however, wasn't Catholic and proclaimed to be atheist himself, thanks to his Soviet upbringing.

"Good to see you again. Am I to assume this visit is not one of a religious nature? Not ready to convert yet are you?" The man smiled. "Just kidding. What can I do to be of assistance to the U.N.C.L.E."

Spellerman was well aware of the organization and had sought its help when THRUSH attempted to have one of their own elected Pontiff with the passing of Pope John XXIII.*

"I am sure you are unaware that Napoleon was attacked recently and is at present unconscious if Coney Island hospital.

"No I wasn't; I will pray for him. Alex doesn't share much with me, though we're good friends. I'm not privy to the workings of UNCLE, unless of course I'm brought into the fold for whatever reason. Please, have a seat and tell me what I can do to help; may I offer you a drink. I have Stoli."

"Though tempting, no thank you, your Eminence. Napoleon was investigating a possible THRUSH attempt to infiltrate and recruit from Xaverian Brothers high school…"

"Ah yes in Bay Ridge. What makes you think THRUSH is at it again?"

"Brother Sean Kelly a teacher there and a former classmate of Napoleon's…"

"He went to Xaverian?" The Cardinal interrupted again."Interesting."

"Yes sir, as I was saying Brother Kelly contacted Napoleon regarding his suspicion that something was going on at the school. After leaving his meeting with the Brother, Napoleon was waylaid at a stop on the Belt Parkway. He was shot by a mysterious woman. There were witnesses, a doctor and his wife and though their presence helped save Napoleon's life, what they saw was of little help. We have no idea if either situation is related or not."

"Well that's quite a mouthful young man, but what can I do to help you?"

"Tell me about the Xaverian Brothers."

"Well they're a worldwide religious order, inspired by their patron St. Francis Xavier, that sponsors schools across the country. The Xaverians consist of lay people devoted to Catholic education.

In 1853 Louisville Bishop Martin Spalding invited the Xaverian brothers to open a school in his diocese, and in 1854 the first colony of brothers moved to the United States. The Brothers took charge of several parochial schools in 1864 and opened St. Xavier High School, in Louisville, Kentucky."

"In 1864, Spalding, then Archbishop of Baltimore, asked the Xaverians to open schools there, and they did so. Baltimore was made the center of Xaverian activities in the United States, and in 1876 a novitiate was opened there at the site of Mount Saint Joseph College, where it still stands. Both rooted in the Roman Catholic Church, the Baltimore-based Xaverian Brothers and the Archdiocese of Baltimore are affiliated but separate entities."

The Cardinal paused to pour himself a glass of water and take a sip from it.

"By 1900, the Xaverian Brothers had opened schools in New York, Maryland, Massachusetts, Virginia, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania.

A small Rosary-making club formed by Xaverian Brother Sylvan Mattingly in Louisville, Kentucky in 1949 grew to be the largest Catholic Rosary making group in the United States. Inspired by the message of Our Lady of Fatima."

"Overseas there's the Xaverian College in Manchester England, St. Francis Xavier Institute in Bruges, Belgium as well as several other schools of higher learning in England and Belgium."

Illya listened patiently, his face remaining placid. It would be a monumental task to check every Xaverian related school to see if THRUSH was making their entreaties there as well. It was obvious now that he would need to assemble a team.

"Other than this information, there is nothing unusual that can be said about the Xaverians." * The Cardinal shrugged..

Illya refrained from repeating the phrase 'that was a mouthful.

"I feared that would be your conclusion," he rose from his chair. "Thank you your Eminence."

Cardinal Spellerman rose as well. "I know you don't believe my son but I will be keeping both you and Napoleon in my prayers. God bless you, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit."

He made the sign of the cross in the air and smiled as Kuryakin, the non-believer crossed himself, though in the Orthodox manner.

Orthodox Christians blessed themselves from right to left. They place the thumb and first two fingers together in a point, and the last fingers flattened against the palm. The three fingers together represented the Holy Trinity - Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and the two fingers in the palm represented the two natures of Christ.

The act of placing the cross on oneself was a request for a blessing from God.

"Old habit from childhood," Illya blushed, embarrassed by what he'd just done. "It was an automatic response."

The Cardinal said in nothing in response as he watched Kuryakin disappear from his office.

He looked upwards with a little smile, "It's a start Lord, a start."

.

.

* ref to "The Vatican Affair"

** from the history of the Xaverian Brothers.


	5. Chapter 5

Illya walked some distance before finally ducking into an alleyway in order to contact headquarters.

"Yes Mister Kuryakin?" Waverly answered.

"I visited with Cardinal Spellerman and discussed the possible THRUSH infiltration of Xaverian high school."

"I'm aware of that and the fact that you let him know Mister Solo was injured."

"Was that inappropriate sir, if so I apologize."

"No no, not at all. Mister Solo is of the Catholic faith and therefore a member of the Cardinal's flock, so to speak. I'm sure your partner would appreciate prayers on his behalf from his Eminence."

Ringlets of smoke from the Old Man's pipe circled his head. There was a stack of personnel files sitting in front of him on his conference table. He'd removed his tweed jacket, which was a rarity for him.

A white porcelain teapot sat on the table as well, though its contents that had gone quite cold.

"Now what conclusion have you reached Mister Kuryakin?"

"Well, for the moment I think more agents are needed on this affair in order to visit the other Xaverian schools across the country. There are nearly a dozen, not to mention those of higher learning located in England as well as Belgium. We need to discern if other students at these locations have been targeted for recruitment as well."

"That is a tall order Mister Kuryakin. However, one that is being addressed as we speak; I trust your instincts in this matter. Continue with your investigation in Baltimore and I will assign additional agents as quickly as they become available. Keep me informed, Waverly out."

"As always sir, out." He tucked his communicator pen back to the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. How the Old Man managed to anticipate his every move was almost inconceivable. This wasn't the first time Waverly was a step ahead of his agents, nor would it be the last. Sometimes Kuryakin felt like a puppet on a string...he stopped moving, snapping his fingers as he'd just had an epiphany.

Stepping to the curb, he placed his fingers to his mouth and gave a loud whistle to hail a cab. After doing so, he raised his hand until one pulled up.

"Where to Mac?"

Illya looked at his watch. "Kennedy Airport, TWA."

"Gotcha."

Illya shut the taxi door and the driver pulled into traffic, hitting his horn to clear the way.

He tried chatting with his blond passenger,"How 'bout them Yankees making it to the World Series?"

"Sorry, I do not follow sports."

"What do you do then, like for kicks?"

"For kicks? Nothing really as my job keeps me quite busy."

"What'd ya do for a living?"

"I work for an International Novelty Company."

"No kidding, like you sell whoopie cushions?" The driver laughed.

"I do not sell our products directly to our customers as I am more of an..._accountant._"

"Oh you's a bookkeeper then, balancing the books?"

"Precisely."

"I was never good with multiplication but I can do my plusses and minuses okay."

"Sometimes that is all one needs to get along in life."

That basically ended the conversation.

Illya knew better than to give out anything more than basic information. Keeping one's cover story short and simple prevented slip ups, not that he thought the taxi driver was an enemy agent, but one never knew. He had business cards on him with a phone number that went directly to Communications in headquarters. A special book was at each specialist's work station, and they had only to flip to the company name being used and the agent's cover name to verify they were legitimate.

His training kept him suspicious of everyone and everything, though he wouldn't let it go as far as paranoia.

Once an agent was unsound of mind in that way, he was as good as done in the field, and possibly with the Command.

Illya had seen a fair few agents become emotionally unstable and sent to the UNCLE sanitarium in upstate New York.

The drive to Kennedy was uneventful, and after paying the driver he headed into the busy terminal.

Trans World Airlines facility at Kennedy was always a marvel to behold and considered an architectural masterpiece. Illya was in awe of its sweeping, modern look, but now was not the time to stop and smell the roses, per se. He needed to check in.

One had to acknowledge the terminal with its arc-like traveling hub was designed to symbolize a bird's wings spread in mid-air. This was done in order to fulfill the airline's directive which they stated was to 'capture the spirit of flight,' and visually, that it did.

Kuryakin joined the bustling comings and goings of people that filled the terminal, his blond head becoming lost among them as he headed straight for the check in counter.

There, a pretty redhead wearing a light blue uniform greeted him. Some of the clothing the airlines had their female employees were could be quite, in his opinion, gaudy. This one the woman wore was rather pleasing to the eye.

"How may I help you today sir?" She flashed an attractive smile.

"Yes, I have a reservation under the name Jan Van de Meer." It was one of his standby covers, that of a representative of a Dutch novelty company. This time he was a bookkeeper, next time he might be a salesman. He switched it around from time to time.

She typed his name into her terminal. "Yes Mister Van de Meer, I have it right here. I see you're traveling one way, would you like to book a return flight now?"

"No thank you."

"Any luggage to check?"

"No, just a quick business trip."

Though she continued to smile, she tilted her head; he imagined she was thinking it was still odd to take a trip with no luggage, not even a briefcase. He made a mental reminder to himself to correct that in the future.

Right now all he needed was in his wallet, a few things in his pockets along with his holster and gun.

She handed him his ticket. "You'll be seated in our Ambassador Class row six seat A."

"Is that an aisle seat?"

"No sir, it's window."

"I would prefer the aisle Miss, if possible." He was being truthful in that. The aisle seat offered a split second more of maneuverability should a situation arise, say a hijacking.

He chuckled to himself, those usually took place on international flights, and rarely domestic. For a split second he wondered if it were paranoia creeping into his thought process, but he immediately dismissed it.

"Sorry Mister Van de Meer, I'm afraid everyone in the Ambassador Class has already checked in, however there is an aisle seat available in Coach." She smiled at him again, fluttering her eyelashes as if that would make him happy.

"No thank you," Illya refrained from snatching the ticket from her hand. He detested the false friendliness, though he reminded himself they were most likely trained to behave a little like like automatons with everyone.

Considering the vast amount of people they dealt with on a daily basis, they were supposed to smile and be friendly no matter the situation. He could be a bit forgiving for that he supposed.

Illya was pleasantly surprised the seating wasn't in Coach to begin with and wondered if it had something to do with his being seated next to the Section III agent from Paris.

He looked at his watch and realized he had just enough time to get something to eat; he was hungry and knew that on a short flight such as this only snacks would be served to the passengers, and drinks of course.

He wanted that drink after all, but not on an empty stomach. He'd had nothing since his meager breakfast that had consisted of a mug of tea and a bagel with cream cheese. For an average person that might be enough, but for this Russian with his high metabolic rate it barely scratched the surface of his hunger, and need for calories.

There were a few locations where he could find food, but it had to be something quick, there was no time for a prolonged sitdown meal.

He ended up at the Lisbon Lounge, ordering a basic ham and cheese sandwich, a bowl of split pea and ham soup as well as a slice of apple pie while he remained seated at the bar. He'd have his drink while on the flight.

Though he'd get his money back once he submitted his expense voucher, he still felt miffed at the prices they charged for such simple food. People at airports were basically captive audiences; restaurants and vendors could get away with almost whatever they wanted.

Illya wolfed down food, which wasn't hard for him to do, when he heard his flight being called. After paying for his meal, he dashed out. Getting in line along with the other passengers as they just began to call for the Ambassador section to board and be seated. His timing was perfect.

When he reached his assigned seat there was a blonde woman sitting in the aisle seat, the Section III agent he presumed, though he was surprised it was a woman. He supposed he was being a bit chauvinistic for presuming the agent would be a man.

She was blonde, and quite pretty considering she was wearing no makeup. He thought that nice for a change to not see a woman painted and powdered. She was wearing a pink sleeveless dress that seemed to give her pale skin a rosy glow.

"Beg pardon Miss, but would you mind switching with me? I need to sit on an aisle seat."

"Pardon Monsieur?"

Illya immediately switched to French, introducing himself as Jan Van de Meer and mentioning that his _uncle_ neglected to book an aisle seat for him.

"Oh but of course Monsieur Van de Meer."

Whether she copped onto the 'uncle' clue, he wasn't sure.

In turn, she introduced herself, "My name is Delphine Émilie Le Claire."

"D.E. Le Claire,"Illya repeated mentally before leaning over and whispering to her.

"You should not be using your real name while on assignment Mademoiselle Le Claire."

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "_Je suis désolé. Je m'excuse,_" She switched back to English. "I am still a bit new at this. I was told you would be sitting beside me Monsieur Kuryakin and I suppose I was a bit nervous as your reputation precedes you."

She immediately rose, moving to the window seat, allowing Illya to sit down.

"I caution you to not make that mistake again regarding your name," he whispered to her, though it wasn't in a very friendly tone of voice. "You must always be on guard."

As he buckled his seatbelt and made himself comfortable. This was all he needed, an air headed courier sitting next to him.

Now he really wanted that drink...


	6. Chapter 6

The usual formalities performed by the stewardesses having been completed; a smooth takeoff took place.

The liquor trolleys wouldn't be rolled out until the plane leveled off.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen," the pilot made his announcement regarding the flying altitude and speed of the plane. His estimation was that they'd arrive in Baltimore ahead of schedule due to a tailwind.

Finally the stewardess came down the aisle with the trolley. Knowing they didn't refrigerate the vodka, Illya ordered his on the rocks...actually he asked for two airplane bottles. It wasn't Stolichnaya, but it would do.

"I think I can do that Mister Mister Van de Meer,"the stewardess had that same toothy smile as the TWA woman at the check in counter; she gladly obliged and gave him an extra glass of ice, and one in which he could pour his drinks.

She didn't make any conversation with him, but her eyes revealed she was definitely flirting with the handsome blond passenger.

Delphine ordered a glass of red wine, though after tasting it she complained that it definitely wasn't the same quality as a good French vintage.

"You would really expect that on a domestic American flight, maybe i first class but not here," Illya snickered under his breath. "It is different here than it is in Europe."

"_Oui, c'est certainement,_" she agreed, whispering back to him.

They couldn't discuss their individual missions, or anything UNCLE related for that matter but as the flight progressed they made pleasant idle chatter, not revealing too much to each other.

He found her not to be the air head that he'd first assumed she was. She was not only attractive but intelligent and witty. Speaking with her brought back memories of his time at the Sorbonne, though there were plenty of bad memories as well.

His handler, back there in Paris, when he was a bit green and naive, became his lover, but for some reason she eventually set him up. The incident involved the East German Ambassador's residence. Then again had it not happened, Illya guessed that he might not have been given to UNCLE. Instead he would have been sent to the blast furnaces in to be burned alive as his punishment for his stupidity.*

Illya remembered watching a training film for those being inducted into the life of Soviet intelligence. It was grainy, and had no sound. There was a man lashed to a stretcher, and he was very much alive as he was pushed into the furnace to be burned alive. He remembered the man staining against the bonds that held him in place as the stretcher was pushed along the rails. The man pulled back his feet from the flames, but it was a useless attempt as the heavy doors were closed, sealing his doom.

Whether the film was real or not, it was an image that would forever stay

with him. Illya supposed the film had done exactly as his superiors had

wanted it to do and that was to instill fear in their agents.

Kuryakin knew of a number of trainees who disappeared, presumably to their deaths in the furnaces, but there was no proof. One of them had been a friend and it was after assuming he died that horrible death Illya vowed to no longer make friends, they were a liability, and perhaps he'd be a liability to others as well.

The GRU had one simple rule 'in-one ruble, exit-two rubles', meaning that to join the organization was easy, but to come out was much more difficult to near impossible, and often deadly.

Illya had paid his two rubles and lived, thanks to Alexander Waverly.

The idle conversation continued until the stewardess returned with the trolley, this time for the in-flight snacks.

They were each given small platters of cubed cheese, crackers and grapes. Delphine disapproved of the cheese and gladly gave hers to Kuryakin, though she said she was watching her figure as the excuse.

Illya offered her his grapes in exchange but she declined.

As the flight came to its end, the passengers gathered their belongings and slowly shuffled their way down the aisle to exit the plane.

Neither Illya or Delphine had any luggage to collect, but were forced to wait until it was their turn to deplane.

The stewardess who had flirted with Illya earlier shoved something into his hand when he passed by and as he exited the plane to the tarmac, he quickly glanced at it.

It was her telephone number. That made him smile, but it suddenly reminded him of his unconscious partner who was usually the one to have pretty stewardesses practically throw themselves at him.

He bid a friendly _au revoir _to Delphine as he headed in a different direction once they reached the terminal.

Illya smiled again, that crooked little half smile of his, reminding himself to look her up next time he was in Paris as he thought he was getting a flirtatious vibe from her.

He spotted her again nearby as they were both waiting for taxis, but neither acknowledged the other.

Illya's destination was the headquarters of the Xaverian Brothers. They had not been alerted to his visit, Waverly thought it best to catch them off guard if in the event something nefarious was afoot. There was the possibility that THRUSH had already insinuated themselves into the Brothers there.

As Illya slipped into the back seat of the taxi he felt a sharp pain in his side. He knew what had happened; he'd been stabbed.

"Drive!" He shouted as he slammed the door closed. His attacker was nowhere to be seen, and was gone like a willow-the-wisp.

He reached back, with his hand coming away covered in blood. He was bleeding badly. "Get me to hospital!"

The driver was startled when he saw Illya's bloodied hand, taking his eyes away for a second. The cab plowed into another car.

The hood crumpled, steam shot up from the engine.

Illya opened the door, falling to the ground as he tried to escape.

"Here!" A taxi pulled up beside him and the door opened. It was Delphine calling to him. _Ici! Avec moi!"_

He crawled into the backseat of her cab and immediately ordered the driver to get him to a hospital as he'd been stabbed. Illya pulled his gold UNCLE identification card.

"UNCLE? I know what that is Mister. I'll get you to the hospital right away, don't you worry none!"

The cab with its two passengers sped off, this time there were no accidents. The driver made it to St. Agnes Hospital in record time, and pulled up to the Emergency Room entrance.

"Hey you can't park that here!" A security guard shouted.

"I has a wounded man in my cab sir!" The driver, named Leon, shouted back.

A gurney arrived and Illya was brought in, examined and immediately taken into surgery. He'd lost a lot of blood and they were afraid he wouldn't make it. His blood type was rare and they had no match for it.

Delphine was left in the waiting room, her pink dress covered in blood. Leon the taxi driver stayed with her as long as he could, but knew he had to get back to work.

"Monsieur, let me pay you please. I owe you for the ride; you helped save my friend's life."

She handed him a hundred dollar bill, and his eyes went wide with surprise.

"Miss, I don't have enough money to make change for this."

"No Monsieur, keep it. You earned every penny of it. My UNCLE would agree with me."

"Thank you. I hope your friend will be all right."

"Moi aussi… me too," she translated.

"I understood that talk, "he smile." My grandmere was Creole, from New Orleans. I remember some of the French she taught us."

"Trés bien et merci, Monsieur," she smiled at him.

Once Leon left she needed to find an out of the way place to contact headquarters and give her report… the boss wasn't going to be happy.

**.**

**.**

* ref "First Kill"


	7. Chapter 7

Illya was brought up from recovery to the Intensive Care Unit at St. Agnes and there he remained, unconscious just like his partner in New York.

The medical staff were concerned after they saw the weapons Kuryakin had on his person, those included his Special, his pearl handled switchblade, a throwing knife and a small caliber pistol strapped to his ankle.

They didn't know to look in the heels of his shoes where plastic explosives and fuses were hidden. Luckily he was wearing his turtleneck and not a shirt with explosive buttons, or his exploding tie bar for that matter. His explosive money clip had been left in his desk drawer back in New York.

If he'd had it with him and someone dropped it, especially with any oxygen tanks around, it could have taken out an entire hospital floor.

There was a communal sigh of relief upon finding Illya's gold Identification card in his wallet. Someone with Hospital Security knew of the U.N.C.L.E. and that there was a field office in Washington D.C. A call was put in to it and they in turn notified Alexander Waverly of the situation.

The Old Man wasn't happy, and after contacting St. Agnes Hospital himself, he requested to be called as soon as his agent regained consciousness.

Delphine Le Claire spoke to headquarters as well after the fact, once she had gotten her wits about her. The shock of seeing Kuryakin wounded and all that blood threw her off. What little she could say was regarding the actual attack itself.

"I hope Monsieur Kuryakin recovers. He was very kind to me while we sat together on the plane, and was quite helpful,as I am still...how you say, green?"

Waverly had pity on the poor girl as she'd suffered quite a shock. He refrained from chastising her about the delay in contacting him since she at least had the presence of mind to come to Kuryakin's rescue.

She was ordered to continue with her courier drop, and after acquiring a pair of surgical scrubs to replace her bloody dress, she was finally able to leave the hospital.

Hours later Waverly was in his conference room when the call came in; Delphine never made it to the drop.

He paced back and forth, as Kuryakin was still unconscious, Napoleon Solo was slowly slipping away; despite the doctor's efforts they were confounded as to why the man was not improving, and now on top of all this, Le Claire was missing.

"Damnation!" Waverly blurted out just as Lisa Rogers came in carrying a tray with her boss's afternoon tea.

"May I ask what's wrong sir?"

Alexander inhaled deeply through his nostrils before slowly releasing a sigh..

"My dear, what kind of tea have you brought?"

"Darjeeling sir."

"I think I'll be needing something stronger Miss Rogers, perhaps coffee, black if you please?"

She knew this was serious; it was her understanding that tea contained caffeine, but generally about one-half the amount than in a cup of coffee. For her boss to want this much stimulant meant he needed to be even more focused.

"Right away sir."

"Thank you, and would you please summon Miss Dancer and Mister Slate to the conference room, I understand they've just returned from Turkey?"

"Yes sir, will do."

"Better make that a carafe of coffee and three cups and saucers please. The Japanese pattern would be nice."

Lisa nodded just before she stepped through the pneumatic doors as they opened with a gentle whoosh.

Alexander Waverly had a number of china tea services that he used in his office, several of which were chosen by his wife Estelle as a reminder that she waited at home for him after his long nights at headquarters.

Mark and April barely had time to drop off their bags in their office and change their clothes before being called to Waverly's conference room.

"Something important must be up luv," he said as they stopped in front of Lisa's desk. Mark straightened his tie and removed that crazy corduroy hat he liked to wear, folding it up and stuffing it out of sight in his jacket pocket.

April checked her lipstick using her compact mirror.

"You look fine," Lisa said.

"What's going on?"

"He didn't say but it must be serious as he ordered coffee for all of you."

"Really?" Mark said. When a man like Alexander Waverly, born and bred in Britain asked for coffee instead of tea, something was definitely up.

The doors opened and the partners quickly entered.

"Ah yes, welcome back."

"We haven't had much time to prepare our reports sir."

"Reports? Oh yes, the Turkey situation. That's not of importance at the moment. Please be seated; I need to brief you both in regards to what's happened. Help yourself to some coffee, as I'm sure you're a bit jet lagged and I will need your full attention on this situation."

They quickly seated themselves, Mark pouring coffee for both of them, though the Old Man already had his cupful.

"I'm sorry to say that Messrs Solo and Kuryakin have both been attacked. Mister Solo was shot when he stopped somewhere along the Belt Parkway several days ago, and Mister Kuryakin was stabbed this afternoon upon his arrival in Baltimore. He was continuing the investigation that Mister Solo had initiated the same day he was shot."

April's reaction was understandable as she gasped. Mark uttered two words, "Good Lord."

"Neither of them are regaining consciousness, though they should have. Mister Solo, I'm afraid, is slipping away instead of recovering. I suspect Mister Kuryakin will begin to fail as well. Call it an instinct."

The intercom buzzed. "Mister Waverly, you have a visitor asking to see you."

"Who?"

"Ummm, It's Angelique La Chien sir," Lisa said." She's waiting in Del Floria's."

"Now things just got more complicated," Mark finally spoke up.

"Indeed Mister Slate. Miss Rogers have Security check her for any hidden weapons, no purse and so forth. Have her escorted to my conference room when she's cleared.

Fifteen minutes later Angelique was brought into Waverly's inner sanctum.

"Waverly darling, you really must do something with your interior decor, it so...dull and drab."

"You're not here to discuss color swatches and curtains my dear woman. What exactly brings you to UNCLE? Are you planning to defect?"

"Good heavens, defect? Not in my wildest dreams would I think of doing that! You don't pay enough for me to even consider it."

"Then why are you here?"April asked; there was an obvious tone of disdain in her voice.

"Oh, you. I didn't even notice you were here."

April raised her gun, pointing it directly at her.

"Now is that any way to treat a guest?"

The Old Man waved his hand, indicating she lower the weapon. "Miss Dancer if you please? Now Miss La Chien what brings you here, as I'm sure it's not a social call."

"No it's not. I'm sure your insufferable Russian informed you that I visited Napoleon in the hospital and we discussed the fact that my organization did not order a hit on him. I suggested to Kuryakin that the culprit might be a jilted lover, though truthfully that's not Napoleon's style. He leaves his paramours on good terms."

"Ahem," April cleared her throat rather loudly.

"If I may continue? I began doing a bit of nosing around, having my sources do some investigating. They revealed a rumor, just whispers mind you, that Napoleon was not only shot but given a slow acting poison that would prevent his recovery and bring about his eventual death. I suspect someone has gone rogue and decided to kill your agent."

That revelation was received with silence, but finally the Old Man spoke up. She seemed to know nothing about Kuryakin being attacked as well, though that could merely be a ruse along with everything else she was saying."

"And why should I believe you young lady?"

"Oh fine then, just let Napoleon die. It will be on your conscience, not mine. I'm trying to help you here. I know you're aware of the umm, relationship he and I have. Believe it or not I actually do care about the man."

"Do you know who ordered the assassination of my agent?"

"No I do not, though even if I did, that much I wouldn't tell you. THRUSH takes care of their own. If there is someone who'd had gone rogue, the Council would deal with it, of that you can be assured."

"How honorable of you," April sneered. In truth Dancer knew how THRUSH took care of anyone who displeased them, and that was a bullet to the head.

"Tsk," Angelique clicked her tongue."Darling, you can be such a boor at times. I don't know what Napoleon sees in you."

April glared at the woman. She tried to keep her trysts with Solo low keyed, though she suspected Mister Waverly knew; the Old Man knew everything. Having it brought out publicly by the likes of Angelique was infuriating.

"This coming from '_the dog'_ who sleeps with just about anyone, or should I say anything?" *

"Ladies, ladies," Mark stepped up to the plate."Please?"

"Yes, enough cat fighting. Retract the claws," Waverly ordered.

"Now if you've finished Miss La Chien my Security team will escort you out of the building and see to a taxi for you, if you don't have your own transportation."

"Yes, that would be a good idea. Can't have me giving the place a bad name. _A bientot." _Angelique blew a little kiss as she was whisked from the room.

"Well that was eye opening," Mark said.

"Indeed Mister Slate," Waverly reached over to his intercom, and flicked the toggle switch.

"Miss Rogers please have Doctor Greene and the head of Research and Development come to the conference room immediately."

"Sir,"April asked,"do you think Illya... I mean Mister Kuryakin might have fallen victim to the same poison, that's if Angelique is telling the truth. It seems just too good to be true."

"Yes it is rather fortuitous, but one thing Mister Kuryakin said to me while discussing his assignment was that there is no such thing as a coincidence.

.

* La Chien is French and translates to 'the dog'. I can't recall which Fanfic writer came up with this surname for Angelique.


	8. Chapter 8

April Dancer stood beside Napoleon's hospital bed, holding his hand and staring at him as if she could will him to open his eyes.

Samples of his blood, and tissue at the wound site were taken once Angelique had generously given a clue to why Napoleon was growing weaker instead of recovering.

Dancer didn't trust her but it was all they had to go on at this point.

After finding trace amounts of an unidentified toxin in his system, Research and Development concocted what they hoped would be the antidote.

It had apparently been delivered via the bullet that struck him, but the amount was so miniscule that the treating physicians missed it.

Now it was a matter of time, waiting and hoping the antidote would work.

"Napoleon darling, it's me April. You have to open your eyes please? We need you...I need you."

She leaned forward, gently kissing him on the lips and when she suddenly felt his tongue run across her lips, she gasped.

"Don't stop, " Napoleon whispered."That was nice."

April grinned and leaning forward, she kissed him passionately this time. When she finally came up for air she saw that wonderful smile of his, though the look on his face gave away that he was weak.

"April, I know I was shot but I feel like I've been hit by a long have I…?"

"Too long darling. Yes you were shot, but you were also poisoned. The bullet was treated with a very potent, slow acting toxin. The doctors missed it, but you have your ahem, friend Angelique, to thank. It was she who told Waverly that her sources found out about the poison. Apparently THRUSH wasn't responsible for the attempt on your life, or so she said. We haven't been able to find out who tried to kill you."

"Where's Illya?"

"That's the second half of the bad news. He was continuing your investigation into the Xaverian Brothers lead and was stabbed as he was getting into a cab at the airport in Baltimore. If it wasn't for a Section III agent who'd been on the flight with him...well he probably would have bled to death. He was dosed with the same poison as you. Good news is he's responding quickly to the antidote."

Napoleon's eyes widened. "Why was a Section III agent with him?"

"She wasn't exactly. She was on a courier mission to Baltimore before returning to Paris, where she's stationed. Waverly had them seated them together on the flight as a matter of precaution. They were both aware of the other's presence."

"Then I have her to thank for saving my partner's life."

"Weeell, that's the next bad news. She left Illya at St. Agnes Hospital in Baltimore in order to complete her courier mission, but never made it. She's gone missing."

"Well, I'm out of it for what...a few days, and all hell breaks loose," he tried pulling himself up to get out of bed.

"Oh no, you stay right where you are or you'll tear open your sutures."

The attending physician walked through the door, grinning from ear to ear when he saw the patient was awake.

"Hello Mister Solo. I'm Doctor Richards. You gave us quite a scare, but thanks to your people at the U.N.C.L.E. they found the poison that we missed. It was a miniscule amount, but powerful. It kept you unconscious and was weakening you little by little. Much longer and you would have been a goner. We do apologize for missing the poison in your system; it was inexcusable."

"No apologies necessary Doctor. The kinds of people UNCLE deals with are often insidious in their methodology. They care nothing for human life and will destroy anyone who gets in the way of achieving their goals."

That sent a chill up the physician's spine. He was accustomed to dealing with everyday criminals, but nothing like what just described to him.

"Well then we need you to get well as soon as possible as it sounds like you're needed on the front lines."

"Amen to that," Napoleon said.

"Excuse me Doctor," a nurse stuck her head through the doorway. "Mister Solo has a special..._very special_ visitor."

A rustling of robes moves passed her into the room.

"Your Eminence," the doctor, who must have been Catholic, immediately bowed and kissed the Cardinal's ring as it was held out to him.

"If you will excuse me Doctor, I'd like a private moment with Mister Solo...and Miss Dancer. Good to see you again April."

"Your Eminence." she smiled at him.

"Napoleon, I see you've gotten yourself into trouble again," he held out his hand to Solo who immediately kissed the ring as well.

"You know so many people kissing your ring could be spreading germs," Napoleon snickered. He felt comfortable enough with Spellerman to joke with him.

"You know, you're absolutely right. Why didn't I think of that? I'm glad to see you've returned to the land of the living my son. I expected you to be on death's door and I was planning to administer the last rights to you."

"Well now you're making me feel all the more special. Apparently when I was shot, I was given a slow acting poison, which our Research and Development isolated and found an antidote in the nick of time."

"Am I permitted to ask how Illya is doing? He visited me before leaving for Baltimore; the whole Xaverian Brother thing is most distressing."

"Your Eminence," April spoke up."Illya was stabbed just as he arrived in Baltimore."

"Oh no!" The Cardinal gasped.

"There's good news; he was taken to a nearby hospital and received immediate treatment, though he too had been poisoned. Illya's been administered the antidote as well and is recovering.

"Oh thank God for that! You both need to get back out there and help lead the fight against the evil in the world.

_Inquisitio veritatis,_ that's your job. Well let me do one thing for you Napoleon before I leave you."

The Cardinal blessed himself, saying prayers for the patient. When he was done, he reached out and made the sign of the cross on Napoleon's forehead.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen."_

Napoleon blessed himself as well and thanked the Cardinal for his visit.

His Eminence left, again his robes making a ruffling sound as he disappeared through the doorway.

The visit from the Cardinal filled April with apprehension; she was aware that the man was Alexander Waverly's friend and had to have been informed about Napoleon's condition.

Not having been raised Catholic, it suddenly struck her that in all the times since they'd met Cardinal Spellerman while on assignment in Rome, * he never once came to Napoleon's bedside when he'd been seriously injured. Though he might not have been told, so it was understandable Mister Waverly didn't share everything with the man.

To her it meant Napoleon had truly been that close to death.

She reached out, slipping her hand around his and gave it a little squeeze. "I don't speak Latin; what does _Inquisitio veritatis _mean?"

"It means to seek the truth."

"That's definitely an appropriate job description if ever iI heard one! Darling," she tried to hide her tear filled eyes."I'm so relieved you'll be all right. The thought of you dying…"

Napoleon gave her a weak smile as he suddenly waxed poetic,

"_Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am in a thousand winds that blow, I am the softly falling snow. I am the gentle showers of rain, I am in the ripening fields of grain," _he stopped to clear his throat.

"_I am the morning hush, I am in the graceful rush of beautiful birds in flight… I am in each lovely thing," he skipped to the end of the poem. "Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I do not die." **_

"You goose, if that was supposed to make me not cry, well you failed miserably." April plucked a hankie hidden in her sleeve and dabbed her eyes with it.

Napoleon reached for her hand held it, giving it a squeeze.

"We'll live as long as someone remembers us and sees us in the good and beautiful things that surround us."

"You're right."

"I usually am," with that he pulled her forward, holding her in his arms and gave her a proper kiss.

.

* ref to "The Vatican Affair"

** Excerpt from "Do not stand at my grave and weep," by Mary Elizabeth Frye written in 1932


	9. Chapter 9

Luckily Illya received the antidote before the poison had really begun to work on him. The stab wound in his back was deep enough for him to have lost a fair amount of blood, but thankfully the blade missed any major organs.

When he at last had some privacy he managed to get hold of his communicator pen. Contacting Waverly, he was relieved to find out Napoleon would be all right as he too had received the same antidote for the poison apparently in both their systems.

His thoughts went again to his revelation about being a puppet on a string.

"Sir have any of the agents you dispatched to the other Xaverian schools been attacked as well?"

"No they haven't, and as far as they were able to find out, no one has approached any of their students to recruit them to THRUSH or any other organization."

"Mister Waverly sir, I think this whole Xaverian thing has been nothing but a ruse, like a MacGuffin in a book, done to set up Mister Solo and myself in order to make an assasination on the two of us."

Before Waverly responded Illya whispered "Out" as a nurse had just stuck her head inside the door. She looked at him but just as quickly she disappeared.

He didn't think she'd heard any of his conversation.

His thoughts went back to receiving his post-surgery transfusion, and getting out of here as quickly as possible. He felt as weak as hell and though he'd threatened to leave on his own, he knew he needed the blood. He'd be lucky if he could even stand right now as he felt as weak as a newborn baby.

Kuryakin's blood type was B negative, which was somewhat problematic since less than two percent of the population had that type.

B negative red blood cells could be given to both B and AB patients but B negative patients could only receive blood from other B negative donors or from type O negative donors, who were universal donors.

The Medical Suite at UNCLE headquarters in New York city had ample supplies of B negative blood on hand at all times, as well as blood from universal donors, given Illya's proclivity for being injured while on assignment.

St. Agnes faced a dilemma in that they had no B negative blood on hand, and getting some from the Red Cross would take time given its rarity.

Their supply of O negative had just been exhausted due to several members of one family who needed it as they'd been in a horrific car accident, and were in surgery just before Kuryakin had been brought into the Emergency Room.

No one in the immediate staff had the right blood type, though Illya would still recover without a transfusion; the doctors there were amazed at his ox-like constitution, given how slightly built the man was.

Still his recovery would take far longer than usual as his body had to replace the blood that was lost on its own; that made for one annoyed Russian.

He barked at the nurses and doctors, threatening to check himself out. Though he did refrain from throwing anything at them like he did when he was confined to Medical back in New York.

They in turn threatened to have him restrained and sedated.

One nurse swore he growled at her as she retreated from his room. His reaction to a bowl of green jello she had in her hand was beyond frightening. She left it on his bed tray, not looking back.

"I'm not going back in there again, he's nuts!" She announced as she stormed out into the corridor.

A fellow passed her by, dressed like an ordinary working man, walked into Illya's room, hat in hand.

"Hi Mister, you remember me? I was you taxi driver. I just stopped in to see how you was doing... the name is Leon, short for Napoleon. My daddy wanted me to have a strong name. My mama was French Creole so she liked the name too."

That made Kuryakin smile, it was as if the Fates had intervened, sending this particular Napoleon to his aid.

"Thank you Leon; your last name would not happen to be Solo, would it?"

"Good Lawd no. It's Singleton, I guess that's sorta like Solo."

Another nurse, obviously with an attitude problem when it came to colored people, immediately barked at him when she entered the room.

"What are **YOU** doing in here? You can't be bothering this patient. Now get out before I call Security!"

"Excuse me Nurse," Illya raised his voice." This man is a friend of mine and has every right to be here. As soon as you get me my B negative or O negative blood, I will be out of here as well!"

"Shucks, I has O negative blood. I had to donate some to my brother when he was in a car accident las' year. Thas' when I found out what I was. I was told its a uni-versal blood type?"

The nurse looked at Leon, then back to Illya. "Surely you don't want _his _blood?"

"Why not?"

"Well number one, he's... _colored_."

Illya refrained from reacting to her obvious bigotry.

"Nurse, blood is blood. Every donor is a life saver, and I have no problem with it as long as Leon his willing to give me some of his blood. If you will look in my wallet Nurse, you will see a gold identification card hidden beneath a leather fold, it states that I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. If you have not heard of it, let me enlighten you. The U.N.C.L.E. provides protection as well as intelligence to its member nations against any perceived threat to that country's well being and sovereignty, regardless of that nation's political policies. Its ultimate goal is to maintain world peace. Now, if I or my friend have any further trouble with you, you will be visited by agents from my organization as well those from FBI and CIA for your reprehensible behavior unbecoming an American citizen towards another American, as well as to myself."

"Fine with me boss," Leon grinned."I'll donate my blood."

The nurse's nostrils flared as she spun on her heels, leaving the room in a huff.

"Say Mister, thanks fo' standin' up fo me. Can I ask what you name is since you said I was you friend, just in case someone asks."

"In this instance my name is Jan Van de Meer, though my real name is Illya Kuryakin, I am however undercover. I do work for the organization I just mentioned. Though as to FBI and CIA coming after her...well I lied," Illya winked.

"My organization would bring her in for questioning; if her answers did not please them, then perhaps the FBI might be contacted. The U.N.C.L.E. has a lovely prison facility in a very, very cold climate…"

"I heard of your Uncle, so then you a cop or a spy or something?"'

"Yes sort of. Now, just be sure to call me Jan.

"I sho' will Mister Jan. Glad to be of help again."

A short while later she arrived with an orderly who set up the transfusion to be done right in the room. She'd be damned if it got out one of _them,_ was giving blood to a white man.

As soon as the procedure was done Illya requested his clothing, as well as his other belongings.

While a rather muscular orderly stood by, Illya's property was returned to him with a glare from that nurse, whose name was Virginia Semmes.

He'd make sure she was prominently featured in his report to Waverly, as well as to the reason why.

It didn't matter that his jacket and shirt were bloodied. He could purchase replacements for them before his return flight to New York that Waverly had booked for him.

Leon was waiting outside the entrance to the hospital and met Kuryakin as he exited the building.

"Where to Mister Jan?" He grinned.

"Leon, you have done enough to help me, please this is unnecessary."

"No sir, seeing you tell off that nurse did my heart good. You is Russian that much I get, so you probablys experienced some hate in this country, so's you understand. I owe you, whether you like it or not. So where to?"

Illya sighed. Leon was right and he accepted the man's offer,"I need to replace my shirt and jacket so a clothier please, someplace reasonable."

"I know jus' the place boss. Thas' Cohen's."

The clothier was perfect, and Illya found exactly what he needed. He in fact bought himself an extra jacket and shirt as the prices were very affordable. The replacement jacket and shirt would be paid for by UNCLE on the credit card they now issued to agents in the field.

He'd still have to submit paperwork explaining the expenditure, but it was better than putting out the cash and then having to wait to be reimbursed. The other clothing though, he purchased with his own money. This time he'd have a clothing bag as luggage to be stowed in the overhead compartment on the plane.

Illya treated he and Leon to lunch, something called Pit Beef. It was a delicious bit of roast meat seasoned with salt, grilled until crispy on the outside and rare on the inside. It was served with horseradish and onion on a roll. To quench their thirst they drank a couple of Natty Moh's, short for National Bohemian Beer, also apparently another Maryland favorite.

The two ate in a nearby park with Leon regaling Illya of stories growing up in New Orleans and Maryland.

Illya refrained from giving any details of his personal life, as well as the fact he'd been to New Orleans on several occasions.

Finally it was time to go and Kuryakin was driven to the airport for his flight home.

He insisted upon overpaying Leon for his driving him about town, and tipped him generously...after all the man had saved his life.

He didn't think UNCLE would mind the extra money for saving their agent. To Illya they were getting off cheaply enough for if he'd perished, the Command would have to go to great expense to train his replacement.

It wasn't his ego talking, it was simply fact...


	10. Chapter 10

Illya refused to take the painkillers given to him by the hospital, though he was feeling quite uncomfortable while heading back on the flight to New York.

Instead he had a couple of drinks to take off the edge; he'd be glad to be able to get up and move again once the plane landed, though he supposed being forced to remain still helped keep his stitches intact, for now.

An UNCLE taxi was waiting for him at the airport when he arrived, and quickly whisked him off to headquarters.

There was no conversation between he and the driver, which was pretty much the standard operating procedure.

He exited the cab in front of Del Floria's and down the steps and opened the door. Hearing the tinkle of the little brass bell was like a welcome home to him and for a moment he breathed a sigh of relief.

The agent at the press said nothing and merely gave to shots of steam to signal an agent was coming in.

After stepping out from the dressing room in reception, as usual, he received his ID badge from Wanda. She handed it to him, unlike Solo who'd have it pinned on his lapel every time he entered headquarters. That little slight was something Kuryakin had finally gotten over.

It was part of Napoleon's routine to flirt with the receptionist, and that was not Illya's way.

"Welcome back," Wanda said. "Glad you're okay, I heard what happened."

"Thank you, me too."

"Mister Waverly is expecting you in his conference room."

"I will be there as soon as I drop this off in my office," he held up the garment bag for her to see.

He suddenly decided it would be best to go straight to the Old Man; better not to keep him waiting even for a minute.

"Wanda, on second thought, could you see that this is taken to my office?"

"Sure, I'll have it taken care of for you."

"Thank you."

He handed over the garment bag and disappeared through the secondary entrance and down the corridor, heading straight for the elevator.

Waverly looked up as the pneumatic doors opened and his Russian agent walked into the room. His observation was that Kuryakin was moving a bit more slowly than usual. Given he'd been stabbed and poisoned a day ago, that wasn't surprising. The Russian had remarkable abilities when it came to recovering from his injuries but still, the lad was only human.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Fine sir. Once I received a blood transfusion my body responded to it quite well. I am ready to return to the field and finish up this affair."

"That remains to be seen, in the meantime repeat your theory to me again?"

"The Xaverian Brother's story about THRUSH recruiting students to their ranks may have been a ruse to get Mister Solo out in the open. He was set up, and no doubt followed from the school by the woman who shot him. As to me being attacked, logic would have dictated that I would be the one to continue with the false lead Nap...Mister Solo had been given and what better place to start than the headquarters of the Xaverian Brothers in Baltimore. I was obviously set up as well. However, I do not think we have a mole here, as I am correct in assuming that only five of us were aware of what sent Mister Solo and myself a wild goose chase. Mister Solo and I were being manipulated like puppets on a string."

"That makes sense young man, especially since there have been no attacks on any of the agents I dispatched to the other Xaverian schools across the country. No one at these locations have seen or heard anything untoward involving their students, or faculty for that matter."

"Perhaps we need to bring in Brother Kelly for questioning, as he is the one who started the ball rolling," Illya said.

"That we will do," Waverly picked up the microphone at is console and flicked one of the toggle switches there. He gave instructions to have Brother Sean Kelly brought in for questioning.

The Old Man had stationed an agent near the school in Bay Ridge and moments later a call came in from him.

"Mister Waverly sir, this is Agent Craig. I'm sorry to report bad news. Brother Kelly is dead."

"What the deuce? Do you know what happened?"

"Not exactly sir. I was only able to get a quick look at the body as it was being put into the Coroner's van. I saw no wounds, but his lips were blue. Perhaps he was suffocated, or maybe poisoned. No way to tell until the Medical Examiner gets to do an autopsy."

Waverly huffed. "Thank you Mister Craig. Check to see if anyone was spotted on the premises who didn't belong there, then report back to headquarters. Out."

"It appears a loose end has just been tied up Mister Kuryakin. Perhaps it's time for us to set a trap of our own," the Old Man cocked a bushy eyebrow.

He flicked another switch on his console.

"Yes sir?"

"I want a report leaked over our unsecure channels. State that Mister Illya Kuryakin had been attacked in Baltimore and is now deceased. Mister Napoleon Solo who was attacked here in New York is alive and recuperating at Coney Island Hospital."

"Yes sir, right away."

He turned to Kuryakin again. "We'll have only one guard posted outside Mister Solo's room, someone who should seem to be easily distracted. as it were. However, you will be there in disguise Mister Kuryakin. We can only hope the mystery woman will return to finish the job."

Illya's smile grew as he listened to Old Man's strategy.

"Of course Mister Solo will be in on the plan," Waverly tapped the contents of his pipe bowl into a crystal ashtray to the side of his console.

It was then Illya noticed it wasn't the Old Man's usual Briar pipe.

"New sir?" He pointed to it.

"Wot, oh... ahem, yes quite. A gift from the wife. This one is made of meerschaum instead of briar wood. Just breaking it in here; I'll most likely keep it home and use it there to keep Mrs. Waverly happy. I do like my old Briar pipe better, but I wouldn't want to insult her gift."

Kuryakin looked at the humidor, his concern evident in his eyes.

"Don't worry young man, I won't light up until you leave. Though there are times I do forget your allergy to my pipe tobacco. I must admit, there's nothing like Isle of Dogs number 22."

"Yes sir and thank you. I appreciate your consideration."

The last thing he needed was a fit of coughing and sneezing that could tear open his sutures.

Illya went to wardrobe to prepare his trickery. Hospital gear would do but he'd have to alter his physical appearance as well.

The announcement was made over the unsecure channels once Illya being disguised was in place at the hospital.

He was dressed as an orderly, wearing a 3/4 sleeve white shirt with a caduceus embroidered on the right breast pocket. His trousers and shoes were white as well.

Illya's blond hair was now a dark brown, and he wore a matching false mustache. To complete the look, he put on a pair of wire rimmed spectacles.

The medical staff had been instructed by the head of the hospital to leave him be, though no explanation was given.

Most of them figured he was guarding the gunshot patient in room 307. He was recovering nicely, though certain details of his being unconscious for far too long had been left off his medical charts. The staff figured he was an important man, for whatever reason, they were left out of the loop.

There'd been a few visitors, and only in the very beginning. The blond haired man who stood guard over him, then a platinum blonde and finally an auburn haired woman who was present when the patient regained consciousness.

The attending, Doctor Richards, was closed mouthed about his patient and anything to do with him.

Now there was a guard standing outside Mister Solo's door, a really cute British guy wearing a weird corduroy hat. He seemed to be more interested in flirting with the nurses or going to get tea. He called all the ladies luv.

Most of the women melted when hearing his accent, it made them think of the Beatles. One of them even asked him if he knew John, Paul, George or Ringo.

"Sorry luv, I have to say I've never had the pleasure, though I did see them perform back at the Cavern Club. Now I've met Mick Jagger and several of the Rolling Stones."

"Who?" The nurses asked.

"You've never heard of the Rolling Stones, well ladies you will. Great British rock band. Though they can come off a bit rough, not posh like the Beatles."

The nurses concluded it was a good thing the mysterious orderly was there, as the English guy wasn't doing a very good job of watching over the patient.

Rumor had it was that someone had tried to murder Mister Solo, though none of the nurses wondered who would want to do that to such a gorgeous and friendly guy.

Could it be the effect he had on women angered a jilted lover, and she tried to get even with him?

While on their breaks and between seeing other patients Mister Solo was quite the topic of conversation at the nurse's station.

Illya waited and waited, Mark Slate walked over to yet again chat up the nurses, and it was then he spotted the woman.

She was wearing a pale blue mini dress, carrying a large shoulder bag. He didn't recognize her, but she was a blond, and was making a bee line for Solo's room.

As she stepped inside the room, she reached into her bag, pulling out a handgun and she quickly screwed on a long silencer to the end of the barrel.

She raised the weapon, aiming it her target.

"I would not do that if I were you," Illya whispered, pressing the barrel of his own gun to her neck.

"So not a good idea," Napoleon said as he lifted his hand from beneath the blanket revealing his gun. He aimed it at her while flashing one of his bewitching smiles.

She snarled, and just as she was going to fire her Beretta both Napoleon and Illya hit her with sleep darts.

"Was she the one who shot you?"Illya asked.

"Oh yeah," Napoleon replied.


	11. Chapter 11

Though it was against Doctor Richard's wishes, Napoleon insisted upon being brought to the mystery woman's interrogation.

He wasn't going to let Illya have all the fun.

The subject was placed in one of the interrogation rooms located deep within the bowels of headquarters and there she was left to stew in her own juices.

Leaving a prisoner alone, letting the time pass slowly helped to build a sense of foreboding in most.

It was easy enough to observe them as they were handcuffed to the interrogation table. First they'd start to fidget in their chair, which was deliberately made uncomfortable. Then the perspiration would begin to show, just a tiny bit on the upper lip was enough of a tell that gave away the prisoner's nervousness.

Though the U.N.C.L.E. was an organization devoted to world peace, they could step up to the plate when it came to giving someone the 'third degree', that sometimes involved threats, intimidation, coercion, and even physical violence. Illya Kuryakin was particularly good at this, in part due to his Soviet training.

Still he had to show some restraint and couldn't unleash his viciousness; that was a side of himself that he kept well hidden. Only Waverly knew of it, and Napoleon as well but only revealed to him in the cold comments that Illya would utter while they were on assignment.

A prime example of that was when Kuryakin, while escaping from a maze with his partner, wished a wolf 'bon appetite' when it was devouring its keeper, Emory Partridge's man Jenkins.*

Like every other room in the building, interrogation was grey in color, as were the metal tables and chairs in there. The lights were exceedingly bright and the temperature was kept higher than usual in order to help raise the stress level of the occupant.

There was a two-way mirror in one wall, a security camera tucked in one of the corners by the ceiling, with the potential interrogators being able to keep an eye on the prisoner in order to judge when they were ready to begin the questioning.

As the woman woke, the only thing she could hear was the loud ticking of the large clock on one of the walls. It was meant to annoy and put the prisoner on edge as it was the only sound they'd hear, It made the subject anxious as time literally ticked by.

She blinked hard several times as she tried to clear her vision and mentally cursed herself when she realized where she probably was.

Moving her tongue around inside her mouth, she was searching for something.

This subject was different, simply because this simple action, which was of course, anticipated.

The door opened and in Kuryakin came, with his partner who was in front of him seated in a wheelchair.

"Looking for this?" Napoleon said while showing her a little white pill in the palm of his hand.

"Cyanide is not the quick and painless death you may have been led to believe," Illya said." It is actually a painful and drawn out way to die. Sadly, it does not always kill and will leave the person disfigured for life, not to mention having permanent health issues. It would have been a pity to see your teeth destroyed and most likely that lovely face of yours, would it not? If you survived, and you probably would have not been able to swallow whole food, and would find it necessary to live on a liquid diet for the rest of your lonely-tortured-life."

"Now that we have that out of the way," Napoleon said,"you know who we are, but the question remains, who are you?" Their routine, known as double teaming had now started, it was a little bit of good cop-bad cop to start.

"A patriot," the blonde said.

"Patriotic to whom?" He asked.

"The United States of course. You Solo, you're a traitor working with this," she nodded her head in the direction of Kuryakin. "Your organization gives away important intelligence to him and his kind and makes this country even more vulnerable to an attack by the Soviets."

"I was wondering how I was going to enter into this conversation,"Illya quipped. "Surely you can not believe we UNCLE agents are working against this country or any other member nation for that matter?"

"I work for the government of the United States of America and the people of this country and no one else matters, especially you, you Commie bastard."

"Now now," Napoleon intervened," no need for name calling. Why don't you tell us what branch of the government you're working for and perhaps we can be made to see the error of our ways in amicable discussion with them. We can straighten everything out for you, even forgive you for trying to kill us. I'm sure it was nothing personal really, you were just doing your job."

"They said you had a silver tongue," she laughed, and they weren't kidding."

"Who are _they_?" Illya demanded.

"Go to hell!"

Illya moved at lightning speed and was in her face within a split second. He stared at her threateningly with those icy blue eyes of his.

"This could become quite painful for you if you do not tell us what we want." He buried a fist in the palm of his other hand, telegraphing to her that he was not incapable of hitting a woman.

"Do your worst!" She sneered.

This sort of questioning and threatening went on for hours, but without success. That was rare for the Russian, especially when Napoleon was joining him in the process.

Illya finally turned to his partner, who shrugged.

"I guess we have no choice," Napoleon said.

Kuryakin looked at the two way mirror, nodding his head and giving a wave of his hand for someone to join them in the interrogation room.

Doctor Greene from Medical, wearing his white coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck, stepped inside. He was pushing a small stainless steel cart on top of which sat a bottle of alcohol, cotton balls, a vial of clear liquid and a syringe and a surgical tourniquet

"This may take a minute to kick in," he said.

He wrapped the narrow elastic tourniquet around her arm and tied it, next he filled the syringe with the proper dosage, and after swabbing the woman's inner arm with alcohol, he located her vein and injected her with truth serum.

He removed the tourniquet, and looked at his wristwatch, counting down as he did so.

Watching until she relaxed and her eyes closed, he checked her pulse and listened to her heart rate. As her head drooped forward, he was satisfied she was ready.

"Go ahead."

"What is your name?" Illya asked.

"Helen Adams."

"Who is your employer?"

"The Central Intelligence Agency."

"What is your position with them," Napoleon asked.

"Analyst."

Solo and Kuryakin looked each other in the eye, mildly surprised at her response.

"Do you know where Delphine Le Claire is?"Illya changed the line of questioning.

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"Dead, in a ditch outside of Baltimore."

"Did you kill her?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Illya forced his voice to remain calm even though he was angry.

Solo could see it though, Illya's nostrils flared when he was holding back his outrage. Though he knew nothing of this Delphine Le Claire, it was obvious Illya did and apparently he liked her. He had to guess that she was an innocent in this messy affair as he actually hadn't been briefed on everything. He'd find out later."

"I repeat, why did you kill the girl?"

"Because she interfered with my mission and may have seen my face."

"And what was your mission?" Napoleon asked.

"Assassinate the team of Solo and Kuryakin to start…"

"To start what?"

" Other successful teams were to be eliminated one by one, once enough background information had been gathered in order to set them up for assassination."

"What is the ultimate goal of these assassinations?"

"To weaken and eventually eliminate the U.N.C.L.E. organization."

"Who wants to eliminate the U.N.C.L.E." Illya asked.

She shook her head, pursing her lips as she suppressed the answer.

"Why was Sean Kelly killed?" Napoleon changed things up again.

"He could identify...identify, " she was beginning to fight the serum.

"Did you kill Brother Sean Kelly?" Napoleon then asked.

"No."

"Who killed him?"

She seemed to struggle more, fighting against the effects of the truth serum.

"No."

"No what?" Illya asked.

"I can't say who killed him." She was becoming highly agitated and struggled against the handcuffs, though she shouldn't have been that self aware.

"I need to go." She kept repeating.

Doctor Green checked her pulse. "It's rapid. She must have had other preconditioning to prevent her from answering. Try rephrasing your question."

"Where do you meet the person from whom you get your orders?"Napoleon asked.

"The Chrysler building on Lexington Avenue. Thirteenth floor."

"There is no thirteenth floor," Illya said.

"Yes there is."

"How do we...you get there to the thirteenth floor?" Napoleon asked.

"Press the elevator button for the twelfth floor three times in rapid succession, followed by quickly pressing the fourteenth floor button two times, also in rapid succession."

"Let's go tovarisch," Napoleon grabbed the wheels of his chair, trying to turn it around.

"I think not Mister Solo,"Waverly's voice came over the intercom set in the wall near the door. "Neither you or Mister Kuryakin are in any condition to lead an operation. I will send Dancer and Slate along with a backup team."

"But sir," Illya said.

"No buts from either of you and that is final."

Doctor Greene ordered Illya and Napoleon up to the Medical Suite while he remained to monitor the woman until she came to her senses.

Of course neither agent planned on listening to him or their boss. The two used their silent hand signals, a sign language they'd developed between each other. They both agreed on leaving headquarters and heading for the Chrysler building.

"Gentleman," Waverly spoke again." If you are thinking of leaving the building that's simply not going to happen. Security is waiting outside the interrogation room to escort you both up to Medical, so I suggest you do as the good doctor ordered, or suffer my wrath."

That was enough to put the two of them in place and they begrudgingly did as they were told. They both knew better than to push the Old Man.

A short while later Doctor Greene arrived in their room and after an examination he was glad he'd ordered them to Medical. Pushing themselves had caused some minor bleeding, with a few sutures needing replacement.

"You two will be the death of me yet," he swore as he finished doing the stitches and bandaging them up. Both men had refused local anesthesia.

"No Doctor, most likely death will come to us before you," Illya said.

"Always the fatalist tovarisch," Solo mumbled.

"Perhaps more of a realist."

"Maybe both," Greene said. "Now you two are confined to your beds here until I release you. No arguments, no bargaining, no deals, my word is final. Understood?" His tone of voice could be likened to a growl.

Both Napoleon and Illya were mildly amused by Doctor Greene's attitude as he was more the easy going, country physician type when it came to his bedside manner.

"Yes sir," both men saluted him at the same time.

That of course made Greene laugh. "I'm not joking you two."

"Neither are we," Napoleon said, "Scout's honor."

"I've heard that before. Now stay!"

"Beg pardon Doctor but there is no reason to order us about as if we are dogs," Illya quipped.

Doctor Green pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked out the door, shaking his head.

Illya immediately got out of bed and tiptoed to peek outside their room and ensure the coast was clear. Their clothing was still here, and they merely had to dress and make good their escape despite Mister Waverly's orders.


	12. Chapter 12

As Illya peered round the door frame he observed a rather large man standing there who he recognized as a member of Section V Security. Apparently he'd been dispatched there to keep watch by Waverly.

"Umm, hi there Artie,"Illya said sheepishly as he stared up at the man's face. He was at least six foot five and towered over the Russian.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed Mister Kuryakin?"

"Yes, you are absolutely right, and that is where I am going right this second."

"Good."

The man clasped his hands in front of himself with a smile as he was well aware of how wiley Kuryakin and Solo could be when it came to escaping from the Medical Suite.

He admired them for their resourcefulness, but he'd been tasked with keeping them in their room and they weren't going to get by him at all. Just like they, he had a job to do as well.

Illya turned to face his partner, raising his arms as he shrugged. His facial expression said it all.

"I get it," Napoleon sighed," we're stuck for the duration. Gee, I wonder if we can get a take out order delivered from Changs? You hungry tovarish?"

They were both accustomed to how bad the food could be when you were confined to Medical, especially if it included a bowl of that noxious green jello. It was a separate menu from the daily one posted in the Commissary; those meals were prepared separately according to the physician's request. Cookie had a bit of difficulty adjusting his recipes, as well as making changes to them as he was accustomed to making food for large groups of people, which was his past experience in the army.

The end result were meals that were barely palatable to those who were patients in Medical.

"Napoleon, when am I never not hungry?" Illya answered his partner's question. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Though food was often on his mind, he wanted to get out of here even more.

"Say did you use a double negative?" Solo grinned. Finally getting in a jab for all the times his partner had corrected his grammar.

"Very funny," Illya climbed back into his bed, and rolling to his side, he intended to go to sleep as he doubted there'd be any takeout from Chang's forthcoming; that was unless Napoleon convinced one of the nurses to pick up the food for them. Until such time when and if it could be done, it was better just to catch up on his sleep.

There was a knock at the door and a beautiful red haired nurse appeared with a tray in her hands.

"Why hello there," Napoleon instantly turned on the charm.

"Hello there yourself. I'm Nurse Samantha Reynolds."

"You're new aren't you?"

"Yes I am. Now I have medication for you ordered by the doctor. Just a mild sedative to get you to sleep; he said you and your partner were a bit on the restless side."

"Samantha, if I may call you that? Before you administer the sedatives, I wonder if you could do a favor for me. We're very hungry as we didn't get to eat after a tedious and prolonged interrogation earlier today. Do you think you could get us some food, say from…"

"Oh sure, I'll have a menu sent up from the Commissary with what you're allowed to eat."

Napoleon continued to croon to her. "The food here doesn't agree with either of us and you wouldn't want us to become ill, would you?"

He'd crept out of bed, moving towards her. His voice was so entrancing, almost hypnotizing.

"Why no, of course not."

"Then again, I'd need your special care, if-I-did." He could feel Illya rolling his eyes.

Napoleon made his move, leaning in to kiss her and she was instantly his. As he held her in his embrace, he managed to slip the syringe from her hand. He was just about to inject her when a voice drew his attention and he looked up with one eye while still kissing the woman.

"Oh no you don't Mister Solo," it was Artie. "Put down the needle and let the nice Nurse do her job, otherwise I'll have to restrain you and your partner in straight jackets."

Illya spoke up; he'd been watching from beneath his blanket the entire time, observing his partner as he seduced the nurse. He had to admit Napoleon was quite a marvel to behold.

"I did nothing, why would you restrain me as well?"

"Because you and Mister Solo are like the Bobbsey Twins who do everything together."

Nurse Reynolds gave both men their injections under the supervision of the guard, and as they dozed off, Illya quietly asked one question of his partner.

"Napoleon, who are the Bobbsey Twins?"

"Illya tell you after we wake up," Solo yawned.

.

.

Mark and April, accompanied by a backup team of four agents, stood ready for the elevator doors to open on the thirteenth floor.

The doors slid back, though their opening was announced by a typical 'ding' heard on an elevator.

The agents stepped out, weapons in hand only to find a mess. It seemed the occupants somehow knew they were coming.

There were papers scattered everywhere, and a blonde woman was slumped over her desk. She'd been shot in the back of the head and her body was quite cold.

Moving carefully into the next room, they found nothing but more papers strewn across the floor.

In a blackened trash receptacle there was a pile of ash as documents had no doubt been burned there. What papers they did find contained nothing of value, no names, signatures, addresses; they were worthless.

Whoever had cleaned out the office knew exactly what they were doing. Other than the dead woman and the scattered papers, it seemed as though this had been an organized and professionally executed retreat.

A search of the rest of the floor resulted in nothing else being found except electrical outlets with plugs still in them, but belonging to what? Possibly computer terminal?

That was Dancer and Slate's best guess. Something heavy must have been on the desks as the legs had made quite a deep indentation in the carpeting where they stood.

There were several more empty desks and toppled chairs. Other than that there was little else to indicate how many people had been here or what was the purpose of their little operation.

"Looks pretty much like a dead end to me luv," Mark said.

"I'm afraid I have to agree." April suddenly raised her nose."Do you smell that?"

Slate gave the air a sniff. "Perfume? Must be pretty strong to still be lingering, unless of course the wearer was here and we just missed her."

"No, it's a pretty potent fragrance, and not a cheap one either." April breathed in through her nostrils, trying to remember that scent.

"It's Chanel no. 5."

"Never heard of it Luv."

"Mark darling, haven't you ever given any the ladies you date a bottle of fragrance as a gift?"

"Not really, can't stand the stuff myself."

April pulled her communicator," Open Channel D- Waverly."

"Your report Miss Dancer?"

"I'm afraid who was ever here cleaned house and left. There is a body though, from the looks of it a secretary. No clues to indicate they were truly CIA, or what they were doing here. There was the scent of Chanel no. 5 perfume in the back area, but that only means there was another woman or women working here other than our corpse. She wasn't wearing perfume by the way."

"Very well. Please wait and supervise the cleanup crew once they arrive. Waverly out."

Mark sat in one of the chairs while they waited for the team, though April finally sent the backup agents off to return to headquarters.

"Nothing like being short and sweet," Slate commented on Waverly's answer.

"Well short as in brief, yes, but sweet, hardly."

At last the cleanup crew showed and while they did their work recovering the body, and picking up every piece of paper as well as the ashes in the trash pail, Mark and April sat idly by waiting for the work to be completed.

Finally, April decided to go to the management office, as she'd gotten the idea to see if there were records as to who had rented out the thirteenth floor. Surely the Chrysler building just didn't let anyone use it for free. She then wondered if anyone even knew the floor was being occupied?

The building manager was quite helpful, especially since he was told there'd been a murder. April hinting that if he didn't cooperate, then the news of the death of an innocent secretary might get leaked to the press helped jog his memory.

That lit a fire under him, and he located the original leasing agreement in his file cabinet.

Whoever had rented out the thirteenth floor had done so under the company name 'Liberty Bell Services.' April was sure it was probably some sort of false company name and basically a dead end. Still it would be researched back at headquarters regardless of what she thought.

Their were no checks sent to pay the rental as it was done so in cash, paid six months in advance.

April felt dejected at the lack of information.

"Don't worry luv, we'll find out who tried to kill Napoleon and Illya."

"And don't forget to add the 'why' to that as well darling." April hardened herself, not letting her emotions and feelings for Napoleon show. She was on the job and needed to be strong and professional.

Being one of the few female field agents, she knew she was a bit under the microscope, and probably being compared to the male agents performance-wise.

She didn't feel the need to out do them, but she at least had to be as good as them. Waverly had confidence in her and she wasn't going to let him down.

Days later U.N.C.L.E. had its next lead; the dead woman was finally identified as a secretary named Marlene Saunders; she was in the employ of the CIA.

However, she was part of the secretarial pool and not linked to one specific person at Langley.

Waverly hesitated contacting the CIA on this just yet, but after it was decided the conditioning given to Helen Adams made her unbreakable, he had no choice. He also felt obligated to tell them they had one of their people in custody for the attempted murder of two UNCLE agents.

Finally, Waverly made the call he was avoiding and that was to his contact in McLean Virginia..

"What can I do you for Alex?" Jim Klem asked. He was the liaison to the U.N.C.L.E.

"It appears we've had some difficulty with one or more of your people. We have in our custody a woman named Helen Adams, purportedly one of your analysts. Miss Adams admitted to injuring two of my agents in an attempt to assassinate them and she killed one of our couriers down in Baltimore. There is apparently a plot to murder my best agents in order to undermine and destroy the U.N.C.L.E. that she admitted as well. Miss Adams has been heavily conditioned to not reveal from whom she received her orders, and at this point I thought it prudent to read you in on the situation. We also have the remains of one Marlene Saunders also in your organization's employ as a secretary."

"Helen Adams, and Marlene Saunders you say? I'll have to look into the matter as I don't recognize their names. I'll contact you as soon as I have anything. Thanks."

The conversation was short and to the point.

The next day Klem contacted Waverly, not with details but with a request.

"We'll take Miss Adams off your hands if you don't mind as well as the body of Miss Saunders. We do have to notify her next of kin. We take care of our own Alex and should be able to get some answers as to what's going on, if we have Adams in our custody, that is. I will promise you that she will be punished for her crimes and we'll get to the bottom of this and find who set up this operation. You have my sincerest apologies for what's happened and please extend my regrets to your injured agents on behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Waverly had no choice but to hand Adams and Saunders over to the CIA, though technically he had a right to keep Adams in custody and possibly send her to the UNCLE prison facility in Antarctica for the crimes to which she admitted.

She'd given them nothing more, information wise, as her conditioning having been so intense that it was able to even outwit the science teams here at headquarters.

His people were the best of the best, and to see them at a loss was a rarity.

Waverly had been told by Doctor Greene that it was inadvisable to use truth serum on Miss Adams again as it apparently had driven her blood pressure up to a dangerous level. A second round might have killed her.

Giving her back to the CIA would at least help keep the somewhat friendly relationship with them intact.

It had to be maintained with the United States government and all its entities as a member nation of the U.N.C.L.E. Perhaps it was even more a necessity since headquarters and so many field offices were located on American soil.

He trusted Jim Klem was being truthful about not knowing what had been done to Solo, Kuryakin and Miss Le Claire. Waverly wanted to believe that Klem and his people would sort things out in time.

As to whether he would ever be told who was behind the plot to assassinate UNCLE agents, that might not be forthcoming anytime soon, if at all.

They were the Central Intelligence Agency after all, their security and that of the United States was first and foremost to them.

Such was the world in which they lived and operated, one full of moves and counter moves, as well as treachery and deceit even among allies.

It was however also full of good, and good people too..

That was a constant Alexander Waverly was thankful he could count upon…

.

The End


End file.
